


What We Do

by LastLeaf



Series: What We Do [3]
Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: F/M, cw: brief mention of stillbirth
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-01
Updated: 2020-10-01
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:34:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26742973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LastLeaf/pseuds/LastLeaf
Summary: Having aged out of the Reaping, Katniss's life goals are to avoid the mines, provide for her family, and not make the kind of attachments that lead to broken hearts. For Peeta, it's to inherit his late father's bakery. But will their burgeoning feelings for each other spoil their plans? After all, no match between a Townie and a person from the Seam has ever had a happy ending.
Relationships: Katniss Everdeen/Peeta Mellark
Series: What We Do [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/370055
Comments: 10
Kudos: 81





	What We Do

XXxxXX

“If you break one of my jars, I expect you to purchase it,” Old Man Blankenship warns me, as he does every time I show up at his door. “With _coins_. Dead animals are not currency around here, so you can take your sack full of rats elsewhere.” He gives my game bag a stern look, as if I were actually here to trade with him.

Though I’ve never been told the circumstances, he somehow inherited the town apothecary shop when the former proprietors, my maternal grandparents, died almost twenty years ago. They say he had a family of his own once. A wife. Not a year after their toasting, she died giving birth to his silent, blue son. 

He's lived a remarkably long time for someone in our district, for what that's worth. But now he looks ready to be snatched up by death's sharp talons any time. Gnarled fingers on withered hands, thin yellow hair combed across his fragile, spotted head. Permanently hunched over.

I'm not one to root for someone's death, but it's no secret that when he goes, Prim, his most talented employee, will likely take over the shop. Back in our family’s hands where it belongs.

“Squirrels,” I correct him, trying to keep my temper in check for Prim’s sake, but there’s a bite to my tone that I can’t help. “They’re squirrels. And they’re first-rate.” Not that Rooba, the butcher, will touch them. Still, there’s at least one person in town who seems to like them well enough.

He swats at me as if I were an insect. “Away,” he says, shooing me toward the door. “Away, you hear me? You can wait for your sister outside.”

The urge to roll my eyes nearly chokes me. I stalk out of the shop without glancing back. Old Man Blankenship _harumphs_ behind me just before I close the door. I don't bother waiting there, either. What's the point? Prim's eighteen years old. She doesn't need me to walk her home after work. Besides, she'll have a pretty good idea where I've gone.

Summer's nearing its end, but the weather is still pleasantly warm. Sunny, with a light breeze. Apples have started ripening on trees that grow by the edge of the Meadow, just over the fence. They're mostly small and shriveled, or worm-eaten, but every day I gather what I can to trade at the Hob and the public market in town. What I don't sell, I bring home so my mother can dry some for the winter. And I always set aside a few nice ones for Peeta.

A couple years ago, I would have knocked on the bakery's back entrance. Lately I've just been letting myself in.

Inside, Peeta's hands work a mound of dough on the floured countertop. His brother Rye sits on a different counter, perched between a sink and several tins full of ingredients, kicking a dent into the cabinet beneath him. His hands are in his pockets.

Peeta looks up at me, face flushed from the day's work. “Hey, Katniss.”

“Hey,” I say to him, then direct my next words to Rye. “So if you're back here, who's running the register?”

Rye pushes himself off the counter. “That would be me. Just call it multitasking.”

Peeta wipes his hands on a towel. “Well,” he says, “in that case, you can make yourself useful and start making the icing for the Whitakers' cake.”

Almost on cue, the bell pings from up front. “Guess you'll be making _yourself_ useful then,” Rye says with a grin.

Once his brother's gone, Peeta's face seems to relax. "I've got something for you to try," he says.

He presents me with a tray of fresh cheese buns. Ever since Prim not-so-casually mentioned that the bakery's buns with the layer of cheese baked on top were my favorite, Peeta's always trying to find a way to share them with me. "I don't need to," I protest, even as my traitorous mouth starts salivating. "I know what they taste like."

"Ah, but that's not why I need you to try one," he says. "You see, someone came up with the bright idea to store the yeast next to the rat poison, and you know how distracted I can get...”

“Shut up,” I say with a laugh.

“Now, would I lie to you about something like that? I'm still not sure if I got the two mixed up. It'd be a shame to throw away the whole batch and waste all those fine Capitol-grade ingredients if I don't have to. I can't very well sell these until I know for sure that it won't poison the district. Think of the scandal: the town baker peddling poisoned bread to its unknowing citizens. People dropping like flies. It'd be very bad for business. C'mon, Katniss," he says, extending a bun toward me, a devious twinkle in his eye. "For the good of the district?"

I feel the smile creep onto my face. I snatch the cheese bun from his hand and take a bite. It's still warm.

It took us a considerable amount of time to get to this point. Him offering me things, and me taking them without much of an argument. Now it's like a game we play.

"Hey, Peeta, we got any more of the semolina? Mrs. Harlan's looking - " Rye cuts himself off when he sees me. "What's this?"

“For the good of the district,” I say with a mouthful of cheese bun.

Rye casts a curious glance over at Peeta. "And you said those were for Ander and Delly."

"They are," Peeta tells him. "There are still plenty of them left to take with me. Katniss was just..." he laughs softly, "making sure they're safe for human consumption."

"And I'm happy to report that they're not full of poison," I say brightly.

Rye gives me a quizzical look. “That's...good to know.”

Later, I've polished off another cheese bun and Peeta wraps up two more and places them in a white paper bag. "For Prim," he says. But who are we kidding? I’ll be eating at least one of them.

Together, we assemble the ingredients he needs to make icing: a bowl of fluffy powdered sugar, a stick of butter, a small bottle of vanilla extract. 

Peeta’s about to show me how to cream the butter and sugar when Rye walks back in.

He frowns. “I thought I was doing that,” he says.

“The Whitakers are paying good money for that cake,” Peeta says. “It’s better if I do it.”

“Katniss doesn’t even work here and you’re letting her do that,” Rye points out. He grabs the side of the bowl of sugar and starts yanking it away from me.

Peeta grabs the other side of the bowl to stop him. “Katniss is actually helpful,” he retorts. “Unlike some people, she knows the meaning of hard work.” 

The words _hard work_ must set something off in Rye, because he yanks the bowl harder toward him with much more force than necessary, making the sugar spill in a cloud of dust until a thin coating of powder settles on the bakery floor.

“Great going,” Peeta huffs.

Rye shoves him, a little too roughly to be merely a playful gesture. “Whatever. I'll just go into the storeroom – ”

“There isn't any left in the storeroom,” Peeta snaps. “That was it. It was supposed to last us until the train came in.”

My heart beats faster. None of this would have happened if I hadn’t been here. I just cost them cake money. “So what happens now?” I ask. 

Peeta lets out a frustrated breath. “I guess we go next-door and borrow a cup of sugar.”

XXxxXX

I wasn’t planning on coming with him, but Peeta seems oddly apprehensive about making the trip. Plus, I’ve never seen the inside of the sweet shop before. A small bell chimes a soprano tone when we step through the front door. It’s warm and sweet-smelling inside, but not as inviting or tempting as the inside of the bakery. All the competing scents from the various candy flavors – cinnamon, horehound, lemon, strawberry, mint, butterscotch – give the air an almost cloying artificiality.

Speaking of which, behind the counter stands Tessie Lynn Donner, the sweet shop owner's second child and only daughter. Though she's a year younger than Prim, the two don't know each other well. Her face brightens when she sees Peeta, and she steps toward him. Then stops when I follow him inside the shop. Carefully, she backs behind the counter, the way you would if you were afraid of setting off a wild animal. "Hello. Are you here to...sell me something?" she asks me once there’s a barrier between us.

It's a stupid question, too. I'm empty-handed. “No,” I say flatly. “I'm not here to do _anything_.”

Peeta straightens his spine, and steps forward. He hefts a bag of gleaming sugar crystals onto the counter. In his most pleasant voice, he says, "I was hoping to trade this for confectioners sugar. Just to get us by until the next shipment."

Tessie Lynn grips the edge of the counter so tightly her knuckles are white. “Um...okay.” Her eyes dart back toward me. “Hold on a second.” She cranes her neck so she's facing the back of the store. “Father? _Father_. I need your help with something.”

A large man with a push broom mustache enters the storefront. Without hesitation, he asks his daughter what's wrong.

“I need help with... I need to ask you something,” she says. “Like, about trading.”

When he sees me standing at Peeta's side, understanding blooms across his ruddy face. “Can I help you with something?”

Peeta repeats what he said to Tessie, about needing to trade the crystal sugar for the kind the bakery uses to make icing.

Still, the man’s brows are knit with concern. “And you, miss?” he says to me. “How may I help you?”

Peeta shifts closer to me. “She’s here with me. As my friend. Like I said, I’m here on bakery business.”

“Lucky for you,” says the sweet shop owner, “we’re running low on the crystalized sugar. Not low enough to run out before the train comes, mind you, but a little close for comfort. I’ll accept your trade. Let me get what you need from the store room. Sweetheart,” he addresses his daughter, and then steals another glance at me, “you mind the shop.”

After the man leaves, we wait in silence. I have no desire to make smalltalk. And why should I? There isn't a single thing here that I need. Candy is a useless luxury that I can't afford. But Peeta doesn't seem to feel that way.

He looks in admiration at all the beautiful confections. There are shelves behind the front counter lined with jars packed with brightly-colored hard candy disks, golden caramels, red and white striped peppermints. Behind a glass case is a display of marzipan, dyed and shaped to resemble an array of colorful fruits and flowers. Glossy red apples, bunches of deep purple grapes, delicate pink rosebuds, white and yellow daisies. They're lovely, but I don't get the point of eating something that looks like one thing but tastes like another.

Tessie Lynn stares down at the cash register, avoiding eye contact with either of us.

Her father comes back hefting a paper sack. "Our Tessie made those, you know," he says to Peeta, gesturing to the marzipan figures. “I bet she'd be a real asset to the bakery.”

Tessie Lynn flushes beet red.

Peeta looks equally uncomfortable. “They're lovely,” is all he says.

“Too bad I can't give you the family discount,” he says with a wink. “Of course, our Tessie’s still in school. She’s still got some growing up to do. And in a lot of ways, so do you. Never lose sight of your future, hmm, son?”

Peeta’s uncharacteristically at a loss for words.

Once we're outside, he shakes his head ruefully. "Well, that was uncomfortable. I can't believe Tessie called her father out front. We've traded before, and she's never - "

"It's because I was there," I say.

Peeta rubs the back of his neck. "What did she think you were going to do? Shoot her eye out?"

"She thought I was there to steal something."

"And you brought me with you as your accomplice?" he asks incredulously.

It's no use discussing this with Peeta. He'll never really understand. Instead, I change the subject. "What did he mean when he talked about giving you the family discount?"

Peeta stops walking and turns to face me. “It’s stupid, really. And it’s never going to happen. A partnership between the sweet shop and the bakery would be good for business, they say. The Donners said so outright that they'd make a deal with us, sell us ingredients for less than we'd get from the Capitol if Tessie Lynn could end up the baker's wife.”

This is a revelation. “Wait. You? So, does that mean you’re definitely getting the bakery?”

“Yes,” Peeta says. “I mean, no! Only if I marry her. Otherwise, my mother’s going to keep dragging this out.”

“But that would be it,” I say. “This whole competition with Rye, it would be over. And you'd get the bakery like you deserve to.” This is good news, but it makes me feel strangely hollow, like I've just lost something without realizing it. “Are you going to?”

“What, marry Tessie? No. She's not even out of the...she's not even out of school yet. I have – what? – eight months until I have to worry about it? Anything could happen before then. She could fall madly in love with someone else and I'd be off the hook.”

We stop off at the bakery and trade the sugar for the cheese buns on the counter. The bakery’s closed now, so Rye stays behind to make the icing. Peeta must feel bad about their fight, because he doesn’t even argue.

“I just... I hate fighting with Rye so much,” he confesses later, as we walk down the block to the shoe store. “We didn't used to...” He runs his hand through his hair. “We actually used to be friends.”

A part of me that I thought had healed completely cracks open at his words. I know exactly what he's going through. Gale and I had been friends once, too. Best friends. I think about what I could have done to save my friendship with Gale. And then I realize that it's the same thing Peeta will have to – get married. That's what Gale had wanted from me. It's the only thing that would have stopped our arguments. And now Peeta will have to marry Tessie Lynn if he wants to inherit the bakery and stop this rivalry with Rye once and for all. Maybe then Rye will come up with something of his own. Marry a nice merchant girl who's in line to inherit a shop.

“Growing up,” Peeta continues, “we all knew that Ander and his family would run the bakery. And I was okay with that. Because that's how it was supposed to be.”

“But then he married Delly.”

Peeta nods. “Then he married Delly. She wanted to run her family's business, and he wanted out of our house. It was a pretty perfect arrangement.” He's quiet a moment. “I don't want to be like them. Any of them. If I get married...” He shakes his head and laughs bitterly. “There's an old saying about having your cake and eating it too. It's never felt more appropriate than it does now.”

I don't really understand what he's getting at. “Well, when you inherit the bakery, you can have all the cake you want,” I say lamely, trying to cheer him up.

But it doesn’t seem to work. Peeta tugs at the roots of his hair. “I really am stupid. I always expected that if I got married, it would be because I was in love.”

“That’s not stupid. Isn’t that the way it should be?” 

“Not all marriages are love matches, Katniss. At least, not around here.”

I'd never thought of that. I always assumed that the right to marry who you want, or to not marry at all, was one of the few freedoms we have in district 12. But that's the Seam. No wonder there are so few blonds living there. Who could blame them? I'd do anything to avoid the mines, too.

Peeta might not be interested in it now, but he will eventually. Everyone's pairing up, getting married and having babies. _Not Madge_ , I think. Madge may not say much, but I did overhear her tell someone once that she was never getting married. On the day of Gale's toasting, oddly enough. Since that day, she seems to have thrown herself into her schooling.

Every time I'm at the mayor's house to trade, I always see her surrounded by stacks of thick hardcover books with tissue-thin pages, binders stuffed with papers. To work a government job, like in the justice building or teaching at the school, you have to have extra training. But that costs money that most of us in district 12 don't have. Madge is one of the few who can afford it, and she completes her coursework by correspondence.

I asked her once what she planned to do when she got a job. “Keep living here, I suppose,” she told me. “It seems silly to have a whole house to myself.”

Just thinking of her living alone with parents she barely interacts with causes a heavy feeling in my stomach. _But it's what I want_ , I tell myself weakly. _To live alone. No husband, no children._ Still, that feeling, like I've swallowed a fistful of coal bricks, doesn't go away.

There isn't much time to dwell on that, because we reach the front entrance of the shoe store. The strong odor of shoe polish and leather greets us first, followed by Delly, who married Peeta's eldest brother Ander a little over three years ago, their chubby blond baby at her hip.

She leads us to the back room, where shoe construction and repairs are done. New shoes and boots hang from the ceiling above us. Sprinkles of sawdust and scraps of leather and fabric litter the floor. There's a shelf of what looks like wooden feet against the wall. Ander Mellark sits at a workbench hammering the heel of a shoe, glowering down at his task like he's angry at it.

While Delly's all smiles and hugs, her husband doesn't bother acknowledging us. I couldn't think of a less compatible match if I tried.

There are definite outward similarities between Peeta and his brother. They're about the same height, same broad shoulders. And Ander's face transforms into that same intense mask that Peeta's does when he's decorating a particularly intricate cake. It’s only after Peeta announces that we’ve brought baked goods that his older brother looks up from his work.

“Cheese buns again?” Ander says. “If I didn't know better, I'd say this is the only thing you know how to bake.”

Peeta flushes from his neck to the tips of his ears.

“I happen to like cheese buns,” Delly says in his defense, but her husband is no longer paying attention to us. She coos softly at the baby, then her head snaps up suddenly. "Oh, Ander, come look!"

"At what?" Ander asks irritably. He's now stabbing at a piece of leather with a needle. “I'm busy."

"Too busy to see your son?" Delly says this lightly, almost playfully, ignoring Ander's tone completely.

“I've seen the baby. Unless he's gone through some drastic transformation, he'll look the same as he did the last time I held him.”

“Oh, he does this all the time,” Delly confides to us goodnaturedly. “You know, he once told me 'You've seen one baby, you've seen 'em all'.”

Ander looks up from his task, his mouth set in a straight line. “All babies look alike, Delly. I don't need you to pass him to me every time he sprouts a new hair. I'll take it in good faith that his hair is continuing to grow.”

“Well, I think everything our son does is absolutely precious. Isn't that right, sweetie? You're the most precious little thing in the whole district.” Her face brightens. “Oh, Katniss, you should hold him!”

I widen the distance between us.

Lately, every time I get near a baby, I'm haunted by images that I can't seem to shake. There's a little girl with dark braids carrying the miniature bow crafted by my father’s hands. I'm teaching her to swim at the lake the way my father had years ago. Digging for katniss roots in the soggy earth and catching a duck for that night’s supper. I see a small boy with my eyes and Prim’s smile, and I'm showing him which plants are edible beyond the fence. Or skinning rabbits side by side.

But then I see them dragging home bags of tesserae grain and buckets of oil in Prim's red wagon. Their little classmates being hauled away by the Peacekeepers – their broken, emaciated bodies having finally given out from lack of food.

I see the girl and the boy climbing the steps to join Effie Trinket onstage.

“I'm not good with babies,” I tell her. I cross my arms tightly in front of me.

Peeta clears his throat. "You're not going to ask me if I want to hold him? I'm only his uncle, after all."

I silently thank Peeta as Delly transfers the cooing baby into his arms, who takes to his Uncle Peeta like a duck to water.

Later, as Peeta and Ander make smalltalk about the weather, Delly answers a knock at the back door. I occupy myself by pretending to look at shoes I could never afford. I think about joining Peeta's conversation, but I freeze when I see who's at the door. Thom, one of Gale's good friends and crewmates in the mines. Coal dust settles in the lines of his face, making him appear older than he really is, but he's only a few years older than I am. He's holding out a pair of badly battered boots, the rubber soles flapping like wagging tongues. His nails are broken, the one on the pinky almost ripped clear off. I should really get my mother or Prim to take a look at it, make sure it won't get infected.

I expect Delly to flash one of her typical blinding smiles, like she's your best friend in the world, maybe show off her son like she does with everyone else. For some reason, she looks sad. Not pitying, but more wistful.

I don't mean to eavesdrop, but I can't help but watch the scene in front of me unfurl like a fallen ball of yarn.

“I can't pay you all at once,” Thom is saying, “but I can give you a little every week.”

“You know your credit's always good here,” Delly says, voice thick with emotion.

“When has that ever been true?” Thom asks, slight smile on his face.

“Well, my parents are retired now.”

“I heard. And how does your husband feel about it?”

“This has been a Cartwright business since the Dark Days. I'll always be a Cartwright. No one else gets a say in how I run my business. No one.” Delly's eyes are sparkling and fierce.

The baby wriggles in his mother's arms, reaching for a lock of Delly's blond curls.

Thom nods toward the baby. “Looks just like your brother at that age,” he says.

“You and Bristel gonna settle down someday?” she asks. “Have one of your own?”

“We'll see,” he says, eyes tight in spite of his smile.

The entire exchange seems strangely intimate and I turn away, embarrassed.

As I join Peeta, he's attempting to stitch pieces of leather together with a sewing machine.

"Get your fingers out of the way before they get attached to my table," Ander scolds.

Peeta drops the leather and steps back. “I guess I'll stick to baking,” he says sheepishly.

“You do that,” Ander says. “And now if we could only find something for Rye. If men were paid to loaf off the way he does, he'd be as rich as Haymitch Abernathy.”

He and Peeta share a laugh. I'm tempted to answer that Rye would spend his money the same way Haymitch does, but it doesn't feel right to say. They can poke fun all they want, but Rye isn't my brother.

When we're ready to leave, Peeta wants to say goodbye to Delly. She's still at the back door, staring forlornly out the window. She holds the baby with one arm, while clutching the pair of boots in her other hand.

“Dell? We're taking off,” Peeta says.

“Huh? Oh. Bye, Peeta. Katniss.”

I wave goodbye and we head outside. I'm still perplexed at what I witnessed. “Delly seemed distracted just now,” I say.

“That's probably typical for a new mother,” Peeta answers.

“I guess,” I say, not convinced. “There was a miner at the door when you were talking to your brother.”

“Yeah, I saw. Thom.”

“How do you know Thom?” I ask. I probably wouldn’t even know his name if he weren’t friends with Gale, so I’m surprised that Peeta seems to be on a first name basis with him. 

“Well, uh…” Peeta trails off. “I’m not sure how many people know this, but a few years ago he and Delly were...together. In secret, at first. When they got serious Delly told her parents, but...”

“But they weren't happy?”

Peeta gives a rueful laugh. “That would be an understatement. They threatened to disown her. Give the shoe store to her younger brother. She loved Thom. But she wasn’t about to give up her birthright.” 

XXxxXX

Stars are just beginning to appear in the purple-blue twilight when we arrive back at the bakery. For some reason, Prim’s there, chatting with Rye as he puts the finishing touches on a creamy white cake. She must have come looking for me. She gives me a small wave before continuing her conversation. Whatever they’re talking about, it’s making them both laugh.

When Rye’s not looking, Peeta fixes some of the sloppy work before placing the cake in a white box. 

The chime rings, and the four of us freeze. Since the bakery’s closed, it can only be one person. The baker's widow is thin and sallow with small, close-set eyes and a dour expression. Her waves of ash-blond hair are pulled back into a severe-looking bun. If she’s surprised to see me or my sister here, she doesn’t show it. Instead her gaze is fastened onto the floor by the waste bin. She directs her words at her sons, not sparing a glance at either Prim or me. "That's a lot of sugar in that dustpan."

Her sons look at her with matching guilty expressions. I wonder, not for the first time, what life was like for them when they were younger. Two burned loaves of bread equaled a smack in the face and a bruise that lasted a week and a half. What would have happened to them years ago if they'd spilled precious, costly sugar?

What would be happening right now if Prim and I weren't standing in their kitchen?

"It...something happened to it," Peeta says. "We traded for some more next-door to finish the cake order.”

"You were back here entertaining girls instead of doing your work." She looks at me for the first time since she got here. "The bakery is closed, girls. You'll have to leave.”

I’m no longer the starving eleven year old wasting away in the rain, but I still have no words for her. No defense against all of the ugly things she must think of me.

“It had nothing to do with them,” Peeta says. “It was an accident that happened before they even arrived.” It’s only half true, of course. I was right in the middle of it. But Peeta says it with such conviction I almost believe it.

“And you’ve never cared before if we’ve had friends back here,” Rye pipes up. “Tessie Lynn from next-door’s been here loads of times and you never cared.”

“I don't care if Effie Trinket herself were standing back here,” Mrs Mellark snaps. “This kitchen is for employees only. And furthermore, Tessie Lynn is a good girl from a respectable family.”

“Primrose here’s good enough for the apothecary,” Rye says, clearly not knowing when to leave well enough alone.

“That old goat? Proof of his senility, I'd say.”

It’s a little like watching a train wreck. Maybe that’s why even Peeta isn’t saying anything. 

"What's your problem with Primrose?,” Rye asks, voice rising. “You're so threatened that there's a beautiful woman back here for once? Can't have us talking to anyone who might upstage _you_? 'Cause that's a pretty low bar you've set."

Mrs. Mellark's hand strikes Rye's face like the crack of a Peacekeeper's whip and her eyes fill with tears. Whether they’re genuine or just for show, I’ll never know. She storms off, slamming the door that leads upstairs.

Peeta's face hardens, his jaw set. He takes Rye aside. I can only make out fragments of their hostile conversation.

"That's not how you handle her," Peeta says at one point. Rye is angrily gesturing.

"I'll go talk to her," Peeta says at last. He tries to twist the knob, but it won't budge. "She's locked it," he says. "Deadbolted it, too."

"You don't have keys?" I ask. I’ve heard that some merchants have locks on the doors that separate the shops from the shopkeepers' homes. Just an extra precaution in case someone desperate enough tries to break in. The thief might rob the place, but at least the merchant family will be safe in their beds.

Peeta shakes his head. "We've never needed them. And she never did this to us as kids. Even our father wouldn't have stood for that.” 

“Well, if she expects us to sleep down here,” Rye says, “she's got another thing coming."

"You can stay with us tonight," Prim says.

"Prim!" I scold her. I glance up at Peeta, who looks just as embarrassed as I feel. We can't bring them home with us, down the coal-blackened streets to our tiny gray house in the Seam, with chilly cement floors, one bedroom for three people, and only squirrels to feed them. Though Rye’s not exactly a stranger to the Seam. When he was younger he used to carouse around the Hob chasing white liquor and girls. Even Peeta’s been there once. I helped him look for Rye a couple winters ago.

"We have extra blankets," Prim insists. "I can use them to set up a makeshift bed."

“Thank you, Prim, but that won't be necessary,” Peeta says. “We can stay with our brother tonight.”

They could, except that his brother lives with his wife, son, her parents, and her younger brother. Where would Peeta and Rye sleep? On the hard stone floor surrounded by shoes?

“The lovely Primrose invited us, Peeta. Don’t be rude.” Rye gives a small bow in Prim’s direction. “We’d be delighted to accept your hospitality.”

“Great!” Prim chirps. She decides to start home ahead of us to warn our mother that we’ll have guests.

“Are you sure this is okay with you?” Peeta asks me.

I shrug. Even though after three years of knowing him I wouldn't hesitate to call Peeta my friend, I've always thought of his world and mine as being separate. I can guess what Peeta would say to that. He'd tell me that I've been to his home more times than I can count. And it’s no longer just to trade with the baker. I didn’t have to accompany him to the sweet shop today either. Or to see his brother. Or come back here again. I did that because I wanted to. Because I enjoy spending time with him. “I wouldn’t want to disappoint Prim.”

Rye snatches a mouthwateringly savory-smelling pie with a golden, flaky crust from the case. He boxes it up, as if preparing it for a paying customer, and puts it in a wicker basket he's plucked from behind the counter. "Wouldn't be a good house guest if I showed up empty-handed," he says.

Peeta's not convinced. "And how do you expect to explain how that went missing?" he asks.

Rye considers this. "We'll tell her it was damaged. Dropped. By a customer. One who couldn't pay. We'll just say a Seam woman came in - "

"No," says Peeta firmly, eyes like granite.

"And who exactly do you want to be the fall guy, huh? You'll just find a way to spin it so it's my fault. 'Stupid, clumsy Rye dropped another pie, mother. Better not trust him with the bakery.'"

"That's not what I want," Peeta says. "We can figure out a better way."

I shift uncomfortable in my muddy, coal-dusted boots as Peeta and Rye go back and forth crafting a story in which they are equally to blame for the missing pie. It's exhausting to watch, really, and I almost want to tell them to forget it. To put it back in the case. But even with the income from my mother's healing, my hunting, and Prim's job at the apothecary shop, we can barely afford to feed ourselves, let alone two grown men.

Once they set their story straight, we set off toward the Seam. Moonlight spills onto the cobblestone path, lighting our way: two blond men, a picnic basket, and me. Prim must be home by now. I wonder what my mother thinks of all this. Surely she wouldn’t turn them away. Not when they’re bringing food. 

A large, warm hand envelops mine. I turn to Peeta, who gives me a reassuring smile. Any worries are forgotten. Somehow, Peeta has that effect on me. 


End file.
